


almost (sweet music)

by neville



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Berlin (City), Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Romantic Fluff, World Travel, background Fili/Ori - Freeform, backpacking, bilbo is basically the dad of the group, but this fic also features characters who Can Communicate, for once in the history of fanfic, instead of going to reclaim erebor they're all backpacking across europe, pre-slash fíli/ori, this is just cute, which is generally chaotic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 04:39:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18564079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neville/pseuds/neville
Summary: In which the Company are a group of friends/family/casual acquaintances backpacking across Europe together in an extremely chaotic trip. Ori is in love with Fíli, and Bilbo finds out he has something to discuss with Thorin.





	almost (sweet music)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aather/gifts).



> hello!!! so this fic is a veeery late birthday gift for my wonderful friend heather, who didn't ask for this ship at all, but is getting it anyway. i have never been backpacking across europe and also care little for accuracy, because i'm here for cuteness, not realism, so apologies for any glaringly wrong things that happen in this fic (I'm Trying My Best)! i had great fun writing this though and i hope you all enjoy it. title & epigraph from the song by hozier!

_I wouldn’t know where to start  
_ _Sweet music playing in the dark  
_ _Be still, my foolish heart_  
Don’t ruin this on me

 

 

**1990-something**

Bilbo Baggins has an inconceivably horrific hangover. He didn’t even know that it was possible to be so hungover that he felt like he was actually a little dead or for the pain of the light filtering in through their curtains to be excruciating before he’s even opened his eyes. God, he is _never_ drinking again, and he certainly shouldn’t let Kíli and Bofur encourage him. Worse still, a voice at the back of his head is reminding him that they’re catching the train to Berlin today, and it’s no short journey.

He forces himself, very slowly, to open his eyes and face the day, miserable as it may seem. Across from him on the bed is Thorin, looking rather less deathly; behind him, curled so intensely into the fetal position that it can only be Ori, and behind Thorin, Kìli. This must mean, he thinks, trying to revive his mental faculties, that Nori and Fíli are already up.

Just trying to remember the names of all twelve of his companions worsens his headache.

It takes him some time to collect himself, namely the ten minutes between Ori handing him an aspirin and it starting to kick in; but once he’s up, he has his duty to do. He is the Organiser, the Manager, the man who makes sure they haven’t accidentally left Óin on the bus again, who makes sure that they arrive in Berlin in one piece. Dwalin is also rather good at this, but not quite as diplomatic; and Thorin, actual appointed leader of their group, almost left his passport in Lille and is no longer allowed to be responsible for anything. Bilbo has since taken to carrying everyone’s passports, and as he pulls himself out of bed, makes sure they’re in his rucksack, along with the aspirin. He refills their water bottles in the bathroom, barks at Fíli and Kíli to _for the love of God have a bloody shower so the whole train doesn’t have to smell your filth_ , consults his map of Paris, sips at some more water and tries not to focus on the aching pains of his hangover. He switches on his portable radio, today playing _Mr. Blue Sky_ on whichever station he tuned to last, and disentangles the clothes on the floor, finding what looks like his own shirt amidst the chaos. It’s starting to smell since his last visit to a laundromat, and he goes double on the deodorant to make up for it. Not that it will do anything but make the smell a pungent undertone, but he can try.

Thorin is braiding his hair by the mirror when Bilbo finally clears his mind of tasks and of sorting out his companions’ various problems, approaching him with a levelled caution. Bilbo doesn’t have much clear recollection of the night before, but is fairly sure it involved Thorin, and he can only hope he didn’t say anything stupid. There are a litany of things he could’ve said, and none of them, he thinks, can be good. “We should probably leave soon,” he offers, “so we have time to buy some lunch for the train.”

“Alright,” Thorin says, offering Bilbo nothing to either allay or worsen his fears. He curses inwardly. “I’ll get the others once I’m finished here. Though you hardly look ready yourself.”

Bilbo smiles faintly. “Haven’t been to the bathroom yet. Though I’m not exactly feeling my best.”

Thorin simply raises his eyebrows at this, and Bilbo feels a little like a scorned child again, nodding and scurrying off down the corridor. His bathroom routine is fairly short, mastered by hostel after hostel: his ablutions include a quick piss, splashing his face, and such a swiftly carried out shave that he usually ends up nicking himself in several places, giving him a look that would read on anyone else as rugged but on him as if he’s having some trouble training a new kitten. His reflection does indeed look shocking, his skin tinged with the faint hue of illness and his eyes tired. He’s not too old to drink, and not too old to get shockingly drunk, but he feels it. There’s a creaking of his bones now. Travel makes his joints yawn in the morning, annoys the knee he injured playing hockey when he was fifteen, brings back the ache in his ribs from when he was hit by a car he didn’t see coming, went sailing over the bonnet as if completely weightless. Maybe he is too old for this all, in body as much as in soul.

“Bilbo,” says the familiarly shy voice of Ori, who seems to have appeared behind him rather like a phantom. Ori, like Bilbo, is so unassuming that he has the ability to seemingly appear out of nowhere. “Are you ready?”

“Just about,” he says, emerging to find that Ori has his coat and bag. Bilbo thanks him and takes them, starting on his way down the corridor. He always he thinks he walks rather too jauntily, as if he’s having too much of a good time. “Are you alright, Ori? We can maybe find a pharmacy on the way to the station for your foot.” (Ori has soft feet, and is suffering for it.)

“Thank you, Bilbo,” Ori says with a small smile. “I was hoping to talk to you about something else, though.”

“Oh, okay,” Bilbo says, wondering what it could be that Ori wants to talk to him about. He’s spoken to Ori plenty before, but never about personal matters: while Glóin and Bombur will happily tell Bilbo their life stories and Balin and Bofur will talk about their companions’, Ori is rather more reserved. “Once we get going, we can talk. Better get everybody out of here first.” He gives Ori a look, tries to communicate that he isn’t going to forget this promise, but there’s a faintness to Ori’s expression that suggests it hasn’t quite worked.

But it really _is_ hard keeping track of everything, and one which occupies all of Bilbo’s mental faculties at a time: it takes twenty minutes before they can even leave the lobby, and Bilbo is still waiting for one of them to pipe up with what they’ve forgotten or something they’ve lost. He’s already checked his passport pocket three times.

He does indeed run into a pharmacy when he takes a wrong turn for the station, and what should be a five-minute run turns quickly into almost half an hour of self-diagnosis and a bag full of plasters, creams, shampoo, and medications. Even he ends up leaving with a packet of throat soothers, Vaseline, and some E45 for the dry patch on his shoulder. And, of course, the obligatory six packets of tissues; Bilbo has no patience for _sniffing_.

After this comes the inevitable struggle of lunch: Bombur feels himself above disgusting train station sandwiches, but there are hardly any other lunch options, and so it’s Bilbo’s job to talk him into a BLT while simultaneously nipping at Kíli that he needs to actually buy a sandwich and not just cake, at Nori that they are not going to be doing any daytime drinking on the train, and at Óin that that soda is _far_ too expensive and is he _sure_ about that. Thorin buys a fridge magnet before Bilbo can even catch him, and just smirks when he sees Bilbo’s jaw drop. Balin buys a newspaper in French, and it takes Bilbo about three minutes to extract from him whether he can even read French (the answer is apparently yes). This is before Bilbo even has to buy the excruciating thirteen train tickets, an event that involves a lot of Euros being thrust at him from different directions and his maths skills being sorely tested before he realises that Glóin has underpaid and has to be coaxed into giving more money because Bilbo is still short-changed after buying the drinks the night before.

He is about ready to just fall asleep by the time he’s on the train, but doesn’t forget his promise, and so sits around a table seat with Balin and Ori. Balin sets to doing the French puzzles, and so Bilbo takes a swig of water and another aspirin before turning to Ori.

“What is it you wanted to talk to me about earlier?” he asks, trying not to notice Kíli flirting with a redhead about three seats ahead. He can’t technically tell him off for that, but he _can_ be paternally annoyed.

Ori pauses for a moment, looking as if he’s changed his mind about talking to Bilbo, but seems to will forward some bravery. “Um, so you know I like Fíli, right?”

Everybody knows that Ori likes Fíli, and everybody knows that Ori thinks that Fíli doesn’t like him back like that, and everybody also knows that Fíli is hopelessly in love with Ori but is scared stiff of his older brothers. It’s no well-kept secret. Ori has already told Bilbo about his crush, and Bilbo thanks God for that, because he doesn’t think he could ever feign surprise about it. He nods. Ori kneads the fabric of his cotton trousers. According to Balin, Ori is a gifted dancer, and doesn’t like feeling restricted by jeans, hence his wide variety of what almost become harem trousers the longer he goes without laundry. Bilbo sympathises, but only on the jeans part. He can’t dance, save a waltz.

“I want to ask him out,” Ori blurts. Bilbo’s shock must show, as he immediately flushes bright red. “Is - is that a bad idea?”

Bilbo collects himself. “No - no, not at all. I think you should. That’d be lovely.” He leans in. “Between you and me, I do think that Fíli likes you a lot.”

Ori’s blush deepens a little and he looks away, beaming to himself. “I hope so,” he says. “It’d be so embarrassing if…” He pauses, tangles his fingers, then shakes his head, refusing to end the thought. “I was really inspired by you and Thorin last night. I thought if you could say it, then - then so could I.”

Bilbo has to try and suppress the alarm bells in his head. Him and Thorin? Last night? God, he wishes he could remember; and God, he wishes he wasn’t such a _lightweight_ . “Oh, well.” He laughs breathily, not quite a laugh but the suffering exhale that British people use to diffuse awkwardness. “I felt so much about him that I supposed I’d have to tell him sometime. The liquid courage helped, of course. Maybe sped it up.” He doesn’t mention that he’s fairly sure, without alcohol, he’d never tell Thorin how he feels. Thorin is handsome, dignified, on another plane of existence from Bilbo and his proclivity for calamities; this makes it all the worse, then, that he’s going to have to encounter his drunken mistake while sober and with a regretful headache. “Though I would, er, advise against getting _too_ drunk.”

Ori giggles, and looks off for a moment, clearly contemplating something. Bilbo knows the look of thought, if only because he’s always making it, and Ori sits up. “Do you know where the bathroom is?” he asks.

“Nope,” says Bilbo, “but if you keep walking along the train, you’ll run into it eventually.”

“Okay,” says Ori, looking a little doubtful, but he stands up nonetheless and disappears off into the distance, through the other carriages. Bilbo’s sure that where the toilets were was probably announced, but he didn’t learn a single useful language in high school: just Latin, and in Latin, he had never needed to ask _where is the bathroom_?

The minute he’s out of sight, Bilbo leans forward, tapping his fingers to the top of Balin’s newspaper. “Balin, please tell me what happened last night with Thorin. I don’t remember at all, but it sounds significant, and I would very much like to know what on _Earth_ it was that I _actually did_.”

Balin chuckles. “I told you last night that that much alcohol wouldn’t be good for you, but two shots and you just wouldn’t listen to me.” He sets down his paper. “You danced rather enthusiastically with him last night, and as far as I’ve gathered, kissed him and told me you loved him. The last part I heard from him himself. He came to me asking what he should do, because he didn’t think you’d remember any of this, if you’ll believe. I told him to say nothing of it, and let it pass unless you brought it up.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Bilbo groans, touching his hands to his forehead. “What am I meant to say to him, Balin? The truth?”

Balin chuckles. “That’s what I’d advise.”

“How am I supposed to bring that up? Walk up to him and declare that I have incredibly strong feelings for him which I do dearly hope he has back?” He moves his hands, rubs his temples, wills his warm fingertips to ease away the pain still throbbing in his head that’s only worsened by his dawning reality. “I’m English, Balin. We don’t _do_ that.”

“Maybe you should adopt some of our Americanisms. Like being straightforward.”

“Ori isn’t straightforward, as I’m sure you just heard.”

“Oh, he is. He _did_ just tell you about his feelings. You, Bilbo, would’ve denied until last night that you had any semblance of romantic feeling toward Thorin whatsoever.” Balin picks up his pen again. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Bilbo says nothing, and huffs a little.

 

* * *

 

It’s a long way to Berlin, and despite napping throughout the journey, Bilbo still feels tired when they get there. There’s an exhaustion seeping into his bones now, the kind he could use a hotel for; but he isn’t going to put himself into prim luxury if anyone else is sleeping on a hard mattress. He does, at least, treat the group to dinner on the provision of no alcohol lest his purse bleed to death only halfway through the trip (though, really, there seems no conceivable _end_ yet; just wandering, and one day they’ll be out of money and ready to go home, and that’s when they’ll call it quits). He sits with Thorin, as he always does.

He says nothing, but promises himself they’ll talk later, properly. Thorin seems to know this without even being told. It’s one of the things that Bilbo has always liked about him.

Dinner with so many people, including the oft-bemoaned chore of figuring out how to most appropriately split the bill, is generally the part of the day that finally cracks Bilbo, and this one is no exception: he has to take a break as they bicker over tipping customs to go to the toilets. The smell is terrible and hits him immediately, but Bilbo ignores it, shutting himself in the cleanest cubicle he can find and gently sobbing into his hands. He doesn’t know if there are other people there and tries to keep his tears decent, but the effects of having been living on the road with more people than Bilbo has ever been used to are catching up, and every single emotion he’s pent up on this journey just seems to be waiting to spill out of him, here in an ugly bathroom where he can still hear the sound of David Bowie over the restaurant speakers.

Someone knocks at his door and he starts, elbowing the toilet paper dispenser and cursing as he does so. “Bilbo,” says the voice of Dwalin; not quite who he was hoping for. “Are you alright?”

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” Bilbo says quickly, trying to hide the fact that his breath is still hitching from crying. It doesn’t quite work, especially not when his voice cracks over _alright_ , and he can hear the sound of Dwalin shifting outside the door. Dwalin isn’t so good at understanding feelings, Bilbo knows, and is probably wracking his brain for any advice from Balin that he can utilise.

“Thorin suggested to me privately that I take the company to the hostel and that you two go to the shops together,” he says eventually. “If this is too much for you. If I hadn’t grown up with them, I’d be quite tempted to bash Óin and Glóin’s skulls together, to be honest with you.”

Despite himself, Bilbo snickers at that. “I always want to strangle Bofur, personally.”

“Oh, I get that.” Dwalin shifts again, and Bilbo gives up, releasing the lock and letting his companion look at him. Dwalin takes in his tear-stained face, the knots in his hair from where he had dug his fingers in and pulled, his red cheeks. “We’ll go and find the hostel. Take the time you need.”

“Dwalin,” Bilbo says quickly, before he has a chance to leave. “Make sure that Ori and Fíli share a bunk; and if you can, in a quieter corner of the room. They have a lot to talk about.”

Dwalin smiles, says “roger that” in a moment of uncharacteristic softness, and heads back through to the restaurant. Bilbo takes a few moments to himself again: he steadies his breath, wipes his eyes, sorts his hair as best he can in the mirror. Just in case, he also washes his hands, and he’s midway through drying them when Thorin arrives.

God, Bilbo thinks, even in the shitty fluorescent lighting of the toilet of a random and affordable restaurant in Berlin, Thorin can still take his breath away. There’s just something about him. Bilbo swallows and takes his bag from Thorin’s arms, slinging it onto his back.

“I’m assuming we’re buying the drinks,” says Bilbo, following Thorin out and back into the warm Berlin evening. The sun is just starting to dip, casting its last streaks of yellowish light across the pavements and like beacons across buildings. There’s a murmur of conversation in the streets as people make their way home from work or out to the bars, and Bilbo finds himself feeling oddly at home as they walk, making their way through streets their feet just seem to know as if the world is rooted into their muscle memory. He reaches his hand out for Thorin’s and doesn’t even realise he’s done it until Thorin’s hot palm envelops his.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” says Thorin. Bilbo could almost think he was talking about them.

“Yes,” he says. “It has a totally different type of history, but it’s still - you can still _feel_ it. In the air. You know.”

Thorin chuckles. “Yeah,” he says. “I get it.”

“I assume we’re just buying all the alcohol, by the way.”

“Some chocolate wouldn’t go remiss. Though you know the drill.”

“Ration it so that Kíli doesn’t eat it all in one go and throw up again,” Bilbo nods. It must have been months now, but he still remembers that like it was yesterday: he and Thorin and Fíli and Dwalin, all crowded round in a bathroom with so little room for them all that Fíli had to sit on the sink, listening to Kíli whine about how terrible he felt while Dwalin shouted at him for ten minutes about being stupid. Bilbo had shot a glance at Thorin over the crown of Dwalin’s head, only to find him snickering lightly; their eyes had caught for a moment, and Bilbo had smiled to himself. He clearly wasn’t the only person finding their exploits so far slightly tragically funny.

The first supermarket they find is Lidl, whose prices make Bilbo’s mouth water a little. He’d never realised how stupidly _expensive_ home was. He definitely scoops more chocolate than they even need between the thirteen of them, and Thorin smirks at him as he sees Bilbo pile them up in his basket.

“It’ll be you next if you’re not careful,” he says.

“I can hold my chocolate,” Bilbo insists.

“Just not your drink?”

“Listen, one of these days, Thorin, I am going to develop an alcohol tolerance and drink you under the table. I promise you it _will_ happen. Just as soon as I’m fifty metres away from this hangover and don’t have to remember it.”

“I’m waiting eagerly for that day.”

The alcohol aisle is, as in all European countries, intimidatingly large, and with a much better selection than those either in America or Britain; it’s never hard to find the lager, though, always set out in six-packs. Bilbo thinks they probably should’ve gotten a trolley; Thorin just tucks a six-pack under his arm. Bilbo hates lager, of course, and dallies in the wine aisle. If he drinks, he threatens worsening his headache; or loosening it, and his anxieties.

“I’ll split a bottle with you,” says Thorin. Bilbo looks over his shoulder.

“Alright,” he says, and grabs a bottle of white. “Should we get some lemonade for Ori?”

Ori is the only member of their slapdash company that doesn’t drink, on account of a heart condition that means any number of things could put him into tachycardia. Bilbo had been excessively worried about it at the start of the trip, but between Ori’s two brothers constantly checking up on his welfare and the fact that the only sign of being unwell Ori has shown so far is not being able to run for the trains, he’s not so worried anymore. He just keeps an eye out, and always buys soft drinks for him, usually a litre of Schweppes or some Schloer.

Lidl, however, has some fancy-looking Sicilian lemonade, so Bilbo swipes that instead.

Thorin insists on paying, since Bilbo has covered so many of their expenses recently, and when they walk outside, the sun is hitting the street perfectly now, lighting it all up orange. Bilbo stares at the silhouette of the city, the buildings in shadow, and can’t help but be overwhelmed by it; he stops just to look. He would’ve thought that he’d be immune to it by now, the beauty of all these places they pass through and fall in love with, but he isn’t, and doesn’t think he’ll ever be. Everything about Europe seems to amaze him.

He and Thorin decide to sit down on some steps and watch the sunset before finding the hostel, sharing their wine and drinking it straight from the bottle, which makes Bilbo feel a little chavvy, but there’s also something nice about it. He’s a little bit in love with everything.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says, setting the bottle between them. “And putting you in that situation, where you didn’t know if you could say anything. Truth be told, Thorin, I really do like you, a lot, and when I’m sober I find it hard to say it because you’re so… I don’t know. You’re too good for me. I’d say you’re too good for anyone.”

“I don’t care if you think I’m too good for you,” says Thorin, “I’ll be with you anyway.”

Bilbo thinks he might faint.

“I know you don’t remember much of yesterday,” Thorin continues, “so I’ll say it again and hope it sticks this time. Bilbo, I’ve been hopelessly attracted to you from the moment we set out on this trip. I know you get tired, and that we’re all a handful, and sometimes you look like you’re going to murder one of us, which would only be fair given how mad we’ve driven you. But you have always been kind, and patient, and looked out for us all. You put up with me even when I was rude and abrasive to you, when I wasn’t sure you were up to the job; and even when I was cruel, you treated me no different to anyone else. That there exists a person with your capacity for us is a miracle at all, and that he happens to like me even more so. So I hope that you know I love you.”

Bilbo sniffs, and fishes a tissue out of his pocket, blowing his nose. Thorin looks at him and raises his eyebrows. “Sorry,” Bilbo says, wiping away the touch of tears welling in his eyes. “I wasn’t quite, ah, expecting that. It was very sweet.”

“Don’t expect more sweet nothings. It took me three days to think of that.”

Bilbo rests his head on Thorin’s shoulder, takes another undignified gulp of wine from the bottle. Thorin puts an arm around him, brushes his fingers for a moment over the splotches of sunburn patching Bilbo’s neck from a thoughtless afternoon in the Jardin du Luxembourg. “That one was very nice. Thank you.”

“Are you thanking me for being in love with you?”

“Absolutely. Thank you, Thorin, for being in love with this small disaster.”

Thorin laughs. “If _you’re_ a disaster, where does that leave the rest of us?”

Bilbo chooses not to answer, instead sits quietly, Thorin’s fingers gently working through his hair. He even falls asleep for a little while, and when he wakes up, the sun is disappearing, the last slits of light chasing away. He rubs his eyes and mutters something about how they should get back, pulling on his rucksack again and pulling out his own map of Berlin. Bilbo has a whole pocket just full of maps, all of which get covered by his scribbles the longer they spend in a city. Their hostel is circled already, and Bilbo, just about the only one of them who can successfully read a map, finds it easily, trotting along the streets with his bags in tow. It’s still warm, even with the sun down. It’s nice.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, just before they reach the building. He turns, and is a little surprised to find Thorin right up against him and kissing him; all Bilbo can think for a moment is how much Thorin needs some lip balm, and then he is hit with the dawning realisation that he is kissing Thorin. Regal, perfect, organised, handsome Thorin, with his fingers splayed across Bilbo’s cheek. This is the thing Bilbo has been dreaming of for weeks, and it’s happening, and he’s - he’s just so happy he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He can feel himself grin against Thorin’s mouth, and the returning grin back.

“That’s not your shirt,” Thorin says when they break apart, clapping Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo looks down, and realises that indeed it isn’t: it’s Kíli’s _The Goonies_ shirt. Where Bilbo’s shirt is and who it’s on, he has no idea. He kind of likes this one, though. Maybe he should haggle it.

When he arrives at the hostel, there’s a certain blissful peace to it: Ori, Fíli, and Balin are crowded round trying to work out the cryptic crossword clues; Kíli and Dwalin are arm wrestling; the other two Ri brothers and Bifur are already setting upon the lager Thorin has brought; Óin and Glóin are arguing over something on the map; and Bofur and Bombur have crashed out in bed already. Thorin looks up and smiles and beckons Bilbo as he sheds his rucksack and the bag of chocolate and lemonade; Bilbo melts into kissing him when he arrives at Thorin’s side. He doesn’t know if it’s too soon for it to feel this easy, but he’ll take it just the same.

He rests his head for a moment against Thorin’s chest, listening to the sound of their companions talk and bicker and to the sound of the Berlin traffic. He’s very much in love with all of this, he thinks; and if time stretched on infinitely, he could do this forever - but it doesn’t, and so he’ll treasure what he can, kisses outside supermarkets and the feel of someone else’s shirt.


End file.
